When Boys Cry
by theivydaggers
Summary: How can you just leave me standing? Alone in a world that's so cold. John Watson: Doctor, Soldier, Veteran, Blogger, Detective, Fighter and so, so very cold again. But hey, he's a good actor! Who on earth would guess he was broken? Slow progress Johnlock. T...for now. May be triggering. previously known as 'Hold me, please.'
1. Noose

**This is my first attempt at using lyrics to start fanfics. I just heard these lyrics the other day and couldn't help seeing it as John and Sherlock. Hopefully I'll continue this one. **

**This is Johnlock, but slow progression. Stick around.**

_**How can you just leave me standing?**_

_**Alone in a world that's so cold **_

_**Maybe I'm just too demanding**_

_**Maybe I'm just like my father too bold.**_

_**-Prince, When Doves Cry**_

John Watson was a good actor. Not many people knew this of course. It's not really something you bring up in the middle of a conversation with your middle-aged co-workers who find jokes about bones 'humerus' (Yes, they actually laughed at that.).

He actually did drama in high school. Course he wasn't the best at it, but he enjoyed it immensely. Always got good grades in it and the teacher he had been very nice, and excellent at what she did. She complimented him on his acting abilities and said that if he wanted, he could probably continue doing drama in university.

He didn't obviously. But the fact remains. To this day, John Watson is still a very good actor.

Which is why of course, no one would expect what he was going to do.

He hid behind a happy façade that let everyone believe he was absolutely fine. People thought he was still a bit sad of course. Who wouldn't be after their best friend died? But if you asked Greg, or Molly, or Mrs Hudson, or his work buddy Sarah or anyone really, they would tell you John Watson was happy man, dealing with a rough patch, but he was doing ok.

No, no one expected that today would be the day that John Watson would kill himself.

No one.

Except one.

* * *

The day John had decided he wanted to die wasn't special. It was a normal, lazy Saturday afternoon. He called the clinic the day before and asked if he could have the day off cause he felt a little under the weather, and didn't want to risk his patients' health. They let him, sent him their sympathies and went on with their day.

He had a long shower, taking time to relish the feel of it. In John's mind, apart from tea, there was nothing quite like a long shower with good water pressure and a nice, constant heat.

He dressed in his favourite clothes of the moment. The thick, cream jumper over a black button-up with a pair of worn jeans and his comfy loafers. He felt numb, but good. A small smile played on his face the whole morning.

He boiled the kettle, placing a mug on the counter. As he waited for the hiss of the boiling water, he loaded up his favourite episode of _Doctor Who _on his laptop (The Doctor, The Widow and The Wardrobe if you were wondering). The kettle hissed, he made his tea, he watched his Doctor Who. It was good.

He turned off his laptop and left to get some food. Fish and chips to be specific (oh how British of him.) He coated the fish with tartare sauce like he always did, saturated the chips in vinegar and enjoyed his last meal, savouring the sharp and soft tastes.

He finished his meal, chucked out the wrapping, tipped the shop £50 (the look on their faces was priceless.) and walked back home, humming 'Walking on Sunshine' under his breath.

It was a good day to die.

* * *

He stared at John carefully on the screen his brother had handed him, watching with a crinkle between his brows. His brother insisted he was fine, to stop looking at a screen and help, but he knew something was wrong.

Something was horribly, horribly wrong.

John was doing everything he loved. Savouring it, being uncharacteristically kind and cheerful. Walking with purpose.

But not a good purpose. He walked like he knew something you didn't. A secret that gave him a kind of smug ease. Something that made him wants to savour things. What is something that makes you at ease when you're friend dies and leaves you with lie upon lie? He was almost acting like today he would see Sherlock aga…

Oh.

Oh god no.

* * *

John was still humming to himself when he got to the flat. Change of song of course, but still in an overly cheery voice.

"Take if you will a picture…" He pulled out a note pad a pen.

"Of you and I engaged in a kiss." He placed them on the table.

"The sweat of your body covers me…" He went into his room and slid to his knees, reaching under the bed and making a small affirmative sound when he found the rope.

"Can you my darling…can you picture this?" He moved back to the kitchen, placed the rope on the table to.

"Dream if you can a courtyard…something about flowers in bloom. Something something something, la da da da da, la da dee da dee."

Whistling the rest of the song softly, he started writing on the notepad. Soft, elegant writing. So unlike his normal messy Doctor scrawl.

Once satisfied, he put the notepad down and started tying a noose. Good thing about nooses were that they were so simple. It would take roughly three or four minutes to suffocate. Of course he could still live through a low drop if someone could save him, but the front door was locked and the windows closed. It would take someone very persistent to try and get him. If he could be bothered he'd hang himself off an extremely long fall, jump, and decapitate himself.

But that's just messy.

His doctor brain was activated when he started thinking.

_Risks of failed attempt: _Brain damage from lack of oxygen, Often, failure to actually break your own neck may only yield strangulation and you can be saved, but damaged. Also, permanent rope burns or implement scarring can occur, as well as paralysis in certain cases.

He laughed, looping the rope over a beam in the roof. He looked at his note one last time, and smiled slowly, his eyes watering slightly for the first time that day. He closed his eyes, letting a tear run down his cheek.

No. Now was not the time to feel sad. This was good. This was a good thing. Military John activate. Emotions mean weakness.

_God I sound like Sherlock._

He smiled bitterly, reciting his note one last time.

"The bricks were red…" He pushed a chair under the noose.

"His scarf was blue…" He stood on the chair, the noose circle that would end him held tightly in his slightly shaking hands.

"But now he is dead…" He was crying now. Shit. Shit crying won't help. Come on John Watson. He slipped his rope necklace around his neck.

"So I think I'll die too."

He was ready.

This was it.

Why the fuck wasn't he moving off the chair?

Jesus Christ.

Ready

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

Yes.

Ye…

_**BANG BANG BANG **_"JOHN! JOHN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD YOU MAKE ONE STEP AND I WILL PUT A BULLET THROUGH MY OWN HEAD!"

That.

No.

That can't be.

John turned his head slowly, his eyes locking on the windows of 221B. His body shrivelled up in shock. This…this can't be real. But he's still screaming. And banging. What the hell?

Hanging dangerously off the frame of the window, Sherlock Holmes was punching the glass with all his might. It shuddered, and strained. He kept screaming, his face panicked and wild.

"JOHN GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THAT NOOSE RIGHT NOW. JOHN!? JOHN!"

John blank dumbly. His fingers slowly reaching to the rope around his throat. Slipping it off so very slowly.

_**BANG. BANG CRASH.**_

Sherlock finally punched through the window, toppling into the room and hissing as he landed painfully with his hands out in front of him, catching his fall but shoving shards of glass into his palms. He ignored it, ran to John and pulled out a knife. For a brief moment, John thought he was going to stab him, but the knife slipped under the rope and pulled, slicing through it and leaving it a useless piece of rope that looked like the tongue of a snake.

John wasn't moving. He didn't think he was breathing. Was he breathing? Was he dead?

Sherlock gripped John around the waist and carried him over his shoulder away from the failed noose and chair. He placed him on the couch with little grace, and when John looked at his waist, blood was smeared all over it.

Sherlock gripped his jaw with his fingers, moving it from side to side. Saying things but John couldn't really hear them. Sherlock. Sherlock was talking to him. Touching him. Bleeding in front of him.

Bleeding?

"John can you hear me? John?!" Sherlock shook him slightly, slapping his cheek lightly and wincing before doing it again.

John's eyes fluttered slightly.

"Your…your hands…"

"Forget about my fucking hands John! John? John!"

"You're alive…" John said, his thoughts starting to feel less fuzzy.

"Yes. Yes John. I'm alive."

"This can't be real…" He said, shaking his head and looking at Sherlock's face properly. He looked thinner. Tears were streaming down the man's face, curving at his cheekbones and landing above his lips. He looked awful.

"Real, John. I'm real. See?" He held his hand in front of John's face, lifting John's palm under it. Warm blood dripped slowly onto the palm. "See? Imaginary things don't bleed."

"I..." John's brain finally started working. Sherlock. Sherlock was here. He started sobbing abruptly, clutching at the man's shirt and pulling him against him. Sucking in breaths of air near his neck, clinging to his form and shaking, repeating _"Oh god…you're here. Oh god, oh god sherlock."_

Sherlock was crying too, he held John back, just holding the man tightly, even though his hands burned.

"John…John I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Please." Sherlock muttered desperately into his friend's hair, gasping the words out through bitter sobs.

"Forgive me Sherlock. I'm…I'm…I'm so sorry."

"John…"

"Sherlock…"

Their throats burned, their eyes felt fuzzy. Their tongues felt fat and useless in their mouths. And all they could think was _Thank god he's ok._

**So this is the first chapter. Like it? Tell me. It will make me decide whether or not to write another chapter. -theivydaggers**


	2. Nightmares and Therapy

**Thank you all for taking an interest in the story. The next couple of chapters may be a little confusing, but I think you will all get the hang of it. I do realize I am shortening how long Sherlock was away, but I find it hard to write it any other way.**

'_**Give me therapy, I'm a walking travesty, but I'm smiling at everything.**_

_**Therapy, you were never a friend to me, and you can keep all your misery.'**_

_**All Time Low 'Therapy**__**'**_

**12 Months Earlier (Or two weeks after The Fall.)**

The silence in the room was unbearable, yet John didn't want to say anything.

If he spoke, it became too real, too painful. If he even said the bastard's name it felt like he was stabbing himself in the thigh, turning the blade slowly around, then coating the wound in salt.

No thanks.

But she just kept looking at him expectantly, a compassionate look on her young face. Every once in a while she'd sigh to herself and scribble god knows what onto that notepad on her lap.

He'd forgotten how much he hated being here.

Her nails drummed on the arm of her chair, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet room. John chewed his bottom lip, opened his mouth, closed it, and continued staring into empty space.

"You know John, you do have to talk about why you came here again. I can't spend this whole session drumming my fingers, can I?"

John looked at her, his eyes cold and closed off, before looking away again.

She sighed and wrote something else down.

"Can you at least tell me if you've been taking them?"

John looked at her and played dumb "Taking what?"

"Your antidepressants." She said, with a pointed look.

_Nope._

"Yes."

"Well that's something at least." She mumbled, scratching more words onto the paper before looking at him again. God he hated her. He didn't have a reason to of course, but he hated her.

"Maybe it would be best if I asked some questions? You should try to answer most of them, but you can refuse at any point."

He shrugged and focused his eyes on her, grey-blue against dark brown. He nodded stiffly, and she smiled that stupid, pitying smile of hers.

Did he mention how much he hated her?

"Ok. Good. Have you been seeing people lately? Talking to friends or family?"

There was a pause, but John answered with a quiet "Yes."

"Which?"

"…Friends." He muttered, and she made a soft, almost happy noise and wrote something down.

"And how has that been? Have they talked about…the incident?"

"If by incident you mean my best friend repainting a sidewalk red then yes. I'm_ not_ a child; I don't need to be treated like one." John growled, and Lauren sighed.

"I'm not trying to attack you John. Please, calm down. No one is trying to do anything to you." Lauren looked at him, her face a perfect mask of a calm, collected person.

The room was quiet again, yet John didn't understand how. Could Lauren not hear his heart thudding in his chest? The blood coursing throughout his veins? He felt like he could hear everything so clearly, yet it was all so still. But he could, he could hear the steady drum of his heart, the soft trickle of his blood, the heavy thuds of his head and the constant frenzy of words and songs in his mind.

How on earth was it so quiet when he was so loud?

"So, how has your sleep been?"

John looked at her curiously and blinked.

"My _sleep_?" He asked doubtfully. Lauren nodded at him encouragingly. John sighed. "My sleep has been…uh…little-to-nonexistent." John breathed out with a slight laugh, empty of humour.

"Hmm I see. How much sleep have you been getting?" Lauren said, tilting her face slightly and squinting her eyes.

John sighed and scratched the back of his hand, one of his many nervous habits. He let out a low sigh and rubbed his eyes, feeling a sudden wave of fatigue wash over his body.

"Uh...I go to be at the same time as normal. Ten thirty to elevenish and I... I fall asleep. But then I get...I see..." He groaned, frustrated to not be able to get the words he wanted out.

"You have nightmares? Like the ones about Afghanistan?" Lauren asked tenderly, as if scared he would lash out her and run off.

John nodded slightly "Except now they are about...him."

Lauren nodded sympathetically and spoke in a hushed voice "Would you be interested in trying a type of sleeping pill or sleep medication? Melatonin is organic if you don't like normal drugs, but if you're not worried about that we could get a prescription to basic sleeping dru-"

"NO! I...no. I need to see them. The...the nightmares." John said desperately, pleadingly looking at Lauren.

Lauren's speech died in her throat and she looked at John. Her head tilted to the side again and narrowed her eyes. If John were Sherlock, he would have pointed out that it was a thing she did whenever she didn't understand something or was thinking carefully about something, probably a habit she picked up from someone close to her. Sherlock would be able to trace back to whom, Sherlock would know everything abo-

_You're not him, __**Stop.**_

"John I must ask...why do you...why do you _want_ these nightmares? They are making you restless, and aren't helping you. Why want these nightmares to continue?"

"Because..." John sighed, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

"Because it's the only time I get to see him again."

To tell you the truth, John Watson never wanted to go to therapy. He hated therapy. He hated people digging around in his head, trying to pry out secrets and pointing out all the problems he already knew he had. It seemed like pointless torture, with the only escape being going to it. And that struck him as unfair.

But he went. Because his friends and family wanted him to. Because it seemed like the correct thing to do after one's best friend jumped off a roof and smashed their head in. Because it was what people _did._

But most of all, even though he _**hated**_ it, he went to therapy because he felt that he needed it. He felt empty these days, like someone had ripped out his passion for life from his soul. He supposed they had, actually. Sherlock had been his life and now that he was gone…he felt like a shell of a man, here but not really here.

_I think I'd make a better ghost than a human._

And somehow no-one noticed. N- one seemed to notice how empty John was these days. They thought he was grieving, but the truth was John couldn't feel a damn thing. He just felt cold. And oh, so hollow. But no-one noticed. No-one noticed that John was so un-John. Why you may ask?

Because a fake smile can fool anyone if it's been practiced enough.

And god, had he practiced.

**Voila. Chapter 2. I don't like this chapter as much as I liked my first chapter but oh well.**

**For those who are wondering, the version of 'When Doves Cry' that I based the first chapter (and this story) off is by Damien Rice. Listen to it! -theivydaggers**


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